


while you wonder (what else you're doing wrong)

by openmouthwideeye



Series: West Eros High [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:43:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Every day it starts again. You cannot say if you're happy; you keep trying to be. (Try harder)."</p>
<p>Brienne sucks it up and attends a cotillion brunch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	while you wonder (what else you're doing wrong)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure that by this point I should be posting this as a multi-chapter rather than a series. Ah well, you know what they say about hindsight. Yep, it's fuzzy and imperfect and I'm ignoring it now.
> 
> *title and summary quote taken from "Not Your Year" by The Weepies

When Brienne’s alarm clock blared through her pleasantly hazy dream-state, she seriously considered ripping out the cord and going back to bed. But she could hear her dad padding around the kitchen, and Margaery’s chipper farewell had haunted her dreams, “Let me know if you’re running late; I’ll swing by and pick you up.”  
  
She sat up, rubbing her bleary eyes. She hadn’t gotten home until well after midnight, and her head pounded with the tension of making awkward small talk for over 2 hours.  
  
 _And_ , she admitted to herself,  _I was up half the night freaking out about Jaime._  
  
Margaery’s promised text alerts had been no help at all. A brief,  _Jaime Lannister, WEH’s star forward, has been moved from the OR to recovery_ , had done nothing for her nerves. Margaery must have noticed, because that was when she’d called for beauty rest: “the prerequisite to remain chic and cheerful for our welcome brunch.”  
  
For Brienne, the brunch was anything but welcome. She had agreed to cotillion in the 11th hour, and if it weren’t for the fact that Cersei was supposed to attend, Brienne might have pretended to have homework.  
  
 _You aren’t actually going to approach her willingly, are you?_  her brain wondered incredulously.  
  
Brienne steeled herself and climbed out of bed.  
  
Downstairs, she found her dad tending the stove, humming an old tune as he flipped pancakes.  
  
“Morning,” she mumbled, sliding onto the farthest stool and studying the countertop.  
  
Her dad had been in bed by the time she got home; she wondered how long he’d waited up for her.  
  
“Morning,” he replied, and resumed his humming.  
  
Brienne took the time to really observe the kitchen, and felt guilty for her reticence. Fluffy eggs piled high in her mom’s old china; bacon lay in perfect strips on a crystal serving tray; and she could see milk through beads of condensation on a glass pitcher she didn’t recognize.  
  
Brienne felt herself getting a little choked up. She cleared her throat.  
  
“You know this is a brunch thing, right?”   
  
He looked so pleased with his creation, she almost didn’t tell him, but her dad only shrugged.  
  
“You know you’ll be too nervous to eat,” he said, sliding a plate in front of her.  
  
He was right, of course. Even now, she could barely do more than pick at her pancakes. The eggs turned sour on her tongue.  
  
She swallowed a second mouthful and smiled as convincingly as she could.  
  
“You didn’t have to do all this,” she protested around the bits of food that clung to her dry mouth.  
  
He brought her a bottle of water, which she gratefully gulped down.  
  
“Neither did you,” he acknowledged, and Brienne looked away.  
  
She didn’t deserve his faith in her.  
  
“I’ve gotta go,” she told him, scooting toward the door.  
  
“One for the money,” he stopped her, handing her a paper plate, a few slices of bacon piled on a piece of dry toast. “Two for the show,” he handed her a tall glass of milk.   
  
She chugged it, unconcerned about her queasy stomach. Her dad had been soothing her with milk since she was five and skinned her knee trying to teach herself to rollerblade.  
  
“Thanks,” she said, letting the  _clink_  of the glass hitting the table chip away some of her tension. “I’ll see you later.”  
  
The cotillion welcome brunch was being held in the West Eros Country Club ballroom. Brienne had only been inside the clubhouse twice: once last year for a work party her dad had wanted a date for, and once when she was ten for a WECC swim awards banquet. Both nights she’d spent hiding out in the bathroom, which could hardly be called that since it included dressing alcoves and an informal sitting room.  
  
The country club was much scarier in daylight. Everything was ivory and gold, carved and woven and more fragile-looking than she was comfortable with. There was an openness to it, too; but unlike in the vast arena, this airy sunlight caught on the shimmering dust dancing in front of her.   
  
 _It’ll be fine,_  Brienne tried to convince herself, peeking down corridors and into doorways as she tried to remember where the ballroom was.   
  
She finally found it, following the low feminine murmur drifting through the hallways. Brienne took a breath and pushed inside before she could psyche herself out.  
  
She wished she had taken a second to look first.  
  
Or better yet, to think for half a second when she rolled out of bed this morning.  
  
Everyone in the room was wearing some sort of dress, cream or lilac or pale pink. Brienne had grabbed the first thing out of her closet: gray jeans and a concert tee.  
  
 _Underdressed_ , she thought bleakly.  _Of course._  
  
The sarcasm fell flat, even in her head.  
  
Brienne made sure to veer far away from the corner with smiling college-aged girl sitting behind the brocures. The few inductees who noticed her giggled to themselves and went back to their conversations. They probably thought that she was manual labor, stacking chairs or something. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been expected to move furniture at a social function.  
  
But there were waiters, carrying silver trays of sparkling cider. Waiters seemed safe enough. She was pretty sure they were paid not to laugh at her.   
  
Brienne was just about to ask one what exactly she was supposed to be doing when she spotted Cersei below the stage, talking in hushed tones to a pretty older woman. From the woman’s clothing and demeanor, Brienne could only guess she was one of the cotillion coaches.  
  
 _Suck it up,_  Brienne told herself.   
  
She willed her feet to move. They dragged at first, as if her body knew better than her brain what a disaster this would be. But Brienne refused to veer from her collision course. She wove around clusters of giggling girls and poised former debutantes, willing her breath steady.   
  
It seemed like half the morning before she reached Cersei, halting so abruptly she was sure the older girl would snicker. But both Cersei and the woman were ignoring her, or else they didn’t see her, and Brienne was left rocking sideways on her heels, wondering how to breach the conversational wall.  
  
Her heart was fluttering so erratically, she thought she might faint.  
  
“Cersei,” she interrupted, her words as weak as her will.  
  
The look Cersei turned on her was scathing.  
  
“H-“ she swallowed as Cersei flipped her blonde curls and crossed her arms tightly under her breasts. “H-hi. Um. I was just wondering – how’s Jaime?”  
  
Cersei sniffed at her, paying no mind to the woman standing next to her.   
  
“Fine, considering you got his arm maimed for him.”  
  
“Cersei!” the woman admonished, but Cersei merely shrugged.  
  
“Well, she did.”  
  
The blonde woman raised a warning eyebrow, but Cersei ignored her.  
  
“Our family portrait is going to be ruined this year,” she complained. “That cast is ungodly. And-” her eyes widened, dark eyeliner making the green pop dramatically, “ _prom pictures_.”  
  
“He’ll look good anyway.”  
  
Brienne almost couldn’t believe she’d squeaked the words out. Wasn’t entirely sure where they’d come from.  
  
For once, Cersei seemed to agree with her. She turned on Brienne, her eyes wide in an entirely new way.  
  
“Olenna has your notes for the introduction,” the woman told her, and Cersei rolled her eyes and flounced off, making sure to glower at Brienne as she passed.  
  
“I’m sorry, it’s been a stressful night for all of us,” the woman apologized, shaking her head after Cersei.  
  
“You’re Jaime’s mom,” Brienne blurted, then blushed.  
  
Joanna Lannister raised a groomed brow, then quirked her mouth.  
  
“I suppose I am, for all the good it’s done him.”  
  
“Oh, I just – “ Brienne started, not entirely sure how to respond. “How is he?” her mouth repeated before her brain could catch up.  
  
Joanna smiled, and this time it touched the worry in her eyes.  
  
“The doctors say he’ll heal.”   
  
Brienne opened her mouth to ask again, and Joanna rolled her eyes.  
  
“Twenty-seven sutures and a comminuted fracture. They inserted a metal rod, to hold the pieces together. Surgery took nearly 3 hours.”   
  
She paused, and for a moment her eyes were distant and fearful.   
  
Brienne hissed a breath through her teeth, wincing for Jaime, and for the horror his mother had faced.  
  
Mrs. Lannister must have heard, because she was back, as unruffled as ever.  
  
“Oh, and a mild concussion.”  
  
“He’s out for the season?” Brienne asked, praying for all she was worth.  
  
“At least,” Jaime’s mom corrected. “As I’ve already informed your coach.”  
  
“But - the scouts,” she bit her lip, feeling helpless. “How’s he going to get signed?”  
If any of them had the skills to play pro, it was Jaime. And he  _wanted_  it.  
  
Joanna looked at her, and her eyes were soft and green like Jaime’s.  
  
“You’re the only one who’s asked me that,” she acknowledged softly.  
  
Brienne tried to still her quickening heart, wondering how anyone could  _avoid_  asking that.  
  
 _Is that not an okay thing to say?  
_  
“Sorry,” she mumbled.  
  
Joanna looked at her strangely for a long moment.  
  
“Anyway,” she drove away the silence with one wave of her manicured hand, “Jaime’s tough. He’ll handle it.”  
  
“Of course,” Brienne said softly.  
  
 _But how?  
_  
Brienne couldn’t find an answer.  
  
Joanna pressed her lips, thoughtful.  
  
She snapped her fingers and held out her hand. It wasn’t until she indicated with her eyes that Brienne realized what she was after and cautiously handed over her cell phone.  
  
“Here’s his number,” Joanna said, practiced fingers moving gracefully across the keyboard. “He says you took a few punches for him – maybe you’re woman enough to talk him out of this mood.”  
  
She handed back the phone, and Brienne stared at it rather than slipping it back in her pocket. It all seemed a bit surreal.  
  
Mrs. Lannister, it seemed, had nothing more to say. Brienne rarely had much to say. Together, they created an awkward picture until Margaery joined them. Finding the perfect words was Margaery’s forte.  
  
“Mrs. Lannister, hello,” she greeted smoothly, gliding up beside Brienne and smiling prettily. “I am so sorry about everything your family’s going through.”  
  
“Well,” Joanna Lannister smiled back, all politeness, “We’ll survive. We’re Lannisters.”  
  
“Of course,” Margaery agreed, with all the ease and sweetness Brienne’s responses had lacked. “Your son’s not West Eros’ toughest player for nothing.”  
  
That was a patent lie. Brienne was stronger, no matter how much Jaime rolled his eyes when she told him so. And to imagine anyone tougher than Sandor and Gregor Clegane was to live in a scary world, indeed.  
  
Joanna accepted the kind fabrication with a smile and excused herself.  
  
Margaery wasted no time in linking her arm through Brienne’s and weaving them through the tables.  
  
“Come on, Mel and I switched your tag with Jane Westerling’s. You’re with us.”  
  
She deposited Brienne next to Mellie Carmine, who was wearing the only bit of color Brienne had seen all morning.  
  
“Nice dress,” Brienne mumbled, staring at the place card that declared  _Brienne Tarth_  in flowing gold script.  
  
“I hate pastels,” Mel scrunched her nose, shook it off. “Red makes a statement.”  
  
Brienne saw her curious gaze from the corner of her eye, and braced herself for the inevitable.  
  
“Cool tee,” Mel said. “I love Imagine Dragons.”  
  
Brienne knocked her water glass, sloshing half its contents onto the lace tablecloth. Mel and Margaery pretended not to notice.  
  
“Thanks,” Brienne all-but-whispered, glancing down at herself and back up at the airy sundresses drifting around the room. “I – uh – didn’t realize this was a dress-up thing.”  
  
“They’re all dress-up things,” Margaery laughed, but for once it wasn’t directed at Brienne. “If I ever saw my grandmother in pants I’d cross myself.”  
  
Mel nodded sagely. When it became clear that Brienne was totally lost, she explained.  
  
“Grammy Olenna’s le président de la cotillon.”  
  
“She owns these things,” Margaery rolled her eyes affectionately.  
  
“Oh,” Brienne didn’t know what else to say. “Cool.”  
  
“We’ll talk you through it,” Margaery assured, as the microphone crackled and their eyes turned toward the stage.  
  
Cersei Lannister stood in a cream and gold gown that—with the lights and the stage and the flawless smile—made her look like an actual angel, no joke.  
  
She waited until everyone was seated before speaking, looking down at the crowd like the prom queen she was.  
  
“Ladies,” she greeted, once she commanded the undivided attention in the room. “Thank you for being here. Each of you – “Brienne could have sworn Cersei was looking straight at her, “are unrefined and untaught.” Cersei’s eyes released Brienne to scan the room. “But four months from now, you will be elegant, intelligent, poised young ladies with the world at your feet.   
  
“It is a long journey, but one full of rewards. The accomplishments of the debutantes in this room,” she smiled at a table of well-dressed ladies, ranging in age from eighteen to seventy-nine, “are truly inspiring.”   
  
She emphasized her words with a hand to her heart.   
  
“I know I could never have accomplished such  _incredible_  personal success without their thoughtful guidance. Please join me in welcoming our Cotillion Director, Mrs. Catelyn Stark.”  
  
Brienne frowned, surprised.  
  
“Oh, Grandmother never speaks at welcome brunches,” Margaery read her confusion.   
  
“It’s all up to the loyal underlings,” Mel grinned.  
  
“I didn’t know Mrs. Stark was the Director,” Brienne admitted.  
  
“She’s scary good at networking,” Margaery whispered as Mrs. Stark began her welcome speech.  
  
Cotillion, besides teaching dancing and deportment, apparently taught a bunch of lessons that would help Brienne become “a well-rounded woman.” Among them were interviewing skills, positive self-esteem, and academic achievement.   
  
Brienne found herself thinking that dance lessons might actually suck less than the rest of this.  
  
“And so, on behalf of the West Eros Country Club and the National League of Cotillions, welcome to our home.”  
  
She said the last bit with a teasing smile, gesturing the tables and tasteful decorations of the converted ballroom. Caterers arrived as if on cue, doling out platters until each table was laden with brunch delicacies that put her father’s simple breakfast to shame.  
  
 _There’s no way these girls eat food like that,_ Brienne thought incredulously.  
  
She looked down at her wide hips, supporting well-muscled abs and a small roll of fat.  
  
Her eyes caught on the square bulge in her jeans pocket, distracting her from a spiral of self-abuse. Her fingers itched, and almost of their own accord pulled her phone from her pocket.  
  
She stared, unable to believe she was really contemplating this. But her fingers were moving, and her heart was in her chest.  
  
 _I bet you’re having more fun than me.  
_  
She clutched the phone, and her palms grew sweaty as she pretended to listen to Margaery and Mel talk about last year’s cotillion ball. It seemed like forever before it buzzed lightly against her palm.  
  
She flipped it open.  
  
 _I’m half-doped on painkillers, listening to Tyrion investigate legal recourse for hockey injuries.  
_  
She smiled in relief, typed back.  
  
 _I’m at cotillion.  
_  
She hit send. Held her breath.   
  
Jaime’s text came through before her finger had left the green button.  
  
 _You win.  
_

**Author's Note:**

> Please take a moment or three to leave me some feedback. I can't get better if I don't know how I've effed up this time. ;)


End file.
